The Billionaire's Doll Walks Away Forever

The door to the art room clicked shut behind her, a soft sound in the vast, silent penthouse. The familiar scent of turpentine and oil paint filled her lungs, a stark contrast to the sterile, expensive perfume that permeated the rest of the apartment. It was the only room that smelled like her.

She did not turn on the lights. She walked to the large canvas in the center of the room, her fingers tracing the outline of an unfinished landscape. She had not touched a brush in weeks. The turmoil inside her was a storm too chaotic to be captured on canvas.

Sleep never came. She spent the night in the worn-out armchair in the corner, watching the city lights outside her window slowly fade as dawn broke. The decision she had made felt like a heavy stone in her stomach, both terrifying and liberating.

When the first rays of sun hit the floor, Dayami knew she had to get out. The penthouse felt like a gilded cage, and its walls were closing in. She changed out of her silk robe and into a simple pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater, forgoing the designer clothes Elek insisted she wear. She slipped out of the apartment, ignoring Mrs. Higgins’ questioning gaze from the end of the hallway.

The mid-morning sun hit her face as she stepped onto the street, bright and harsh. She pulled a pair of dark sunglasses from her purse and slid them over her eyes, hiding the dark circles and the exhaustion that weighed down her eyelids.

She walked down the sidewalk. She had no destination. The rhythmic clicking of her heels against the concrete was the only sound in her ears. *Find something that brings you peace,* Dr. Hanson's voice echoed in her memory from last week's session. A bitter laugh almost escaped her lips. Peace felt like a foreign country she had no visa for.

She turned a corner and stopped. The large glass windows of Galerie Glass took up the entire ground floor of the corner building.

A painting in the center window caught her attention. It was a landscape. The colors were muted, capturing the heavy, still air right before a massive storm. The brushstrokes were aggressive yet controlled.

Her fingers twitched at her sides. She felt a phantom sensation of a wooden brush handle pressing into her palm.

She pushed the heavy glass door open and stepped inside. The air conditioning cooled the sweat on the back of her neck. The gallery was completely silent.

She walked straight to the painting. She read the small plaque next to it. The artist's name was unfamiliar to her.

She stood there, letting her eyes trace the dark clouds on the canvas. The storm in the painting matched the heavy, suffocating feeling in her own stomach.

"Walter, look. This is the one I was talking about."

A sharp, nasal voice shattered the quiet.

Dayami stiffened. She turned her head slightly. A woman in a tailored designer suit and a man in a polo shirt walked up to the painting.

The woman, Helen Mercer, stopped next to Dayami. Helen looked Dayami up and down. Her eyes lingered on Dayami's simple beige trench coat, her lips curling into a visible sneer.

Dayami felt the hostility. She took a step to the left, putting distance between them. She just wanted to look at the art.

Helen turned to the gallery assistant who was hurrying over.

"We will take this one. Wrap it up." Helen's tone was loud and commanding.

The assistant stopped, looking uncomfortable. He glanced at Dayami.

"I am sorry, Ms. Mercer, but this lady was looking at it first. According to gallery policy, we should ask her if she intends to purchase it."

Helen let out a short, ugly laugh. Her face flushed with irritation. She pointed a manicured finger at Dayami.

"Her? Can she even afford the frame?"

Walter Chandler placed a hand on Helen's arm.

"Helen, be nice."

Dayami felt a sudden, sharp heat rise in her chest. She had spent the entire night being pushed around, ignored, and treated like an object in her own home. She came here for five minutes of silence, and now this stranger was treating her like dirt on the bottom of a shoe.

She reached up and pulled her sunglasses off her face. She looked directly at the gallery assistant. Her voice was flat and steady.

"How much is the painting?"

The assistant swallowed hard. He stated a number in the low six figures.

Helen let out an exaggerated gasp, clearly waiting for Dayami to run out of the store in shame.

Dayami did not blink. She reached into her purse. Her fingers bypassed her own debit card and pulled out the heavy, black titanium card Elek had given her on their wedding day.

She held it out to the assistant.

"I will take it."

Her tone was as casual as if she were buying a bottle of water.

Helen's mouth dropped open. The smug smile vanished from Walter's face.

The gallery assistant stared at the black card for a full second before his professional training kicked in. He took the card with both hands.

Dayami turned her head and looked right at Helen.

"I do not actually want the painting. I just want to buy five minutes of quiet. You can tell your staff I will resell it to them at the original price after I leave."

She spoke clearly, ensuring her voice carried across the quiet room.

Helen's face turned a dark, mottled red. Her hands balled into fists at her sides. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She had just been completely humiliated, crushed by the exact thing she worshipped.